


Deep Cover

by orphan_account



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), In the Loop (2009), In the Loop (2009) & The Thick of It, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Background Ollie Reeder, Chameleon Arch, Explicit Language, Gen, Humour, Light Angst, Malcolm Tucker Uses Bad Language, Malcolm Tucker is The Doctor, Oneshot, Swearing, The Doctor & Clara Oswin Oswald Friendship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:20:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747699
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: The only constants in Malcolm Tucker's life are the broken fob watch he can never seem to get rid of and his unwaveringly, irritatingly cheery personal assistant.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 57





	Deep Cover

_"Clara," the Doctor says. The way he clutched desperately at her hands told her that the situation was dire. She was confused, searching his face for any semblance of an explanation for what was going on - for what was outside those doors.  
"What's going on? What's out there?" She asked desperately.  
_ _"We don't have time," the Doctor searched the TARDIS for an answer and found his eyes settling on a dial on the console. He winced at the thought. "I have to change."  
_ _"Change?" She reeled back, confused. "You're not hurt." For a moment, her attention was diverted from the creatures outside the TARDIS._ _  
"Not regenerate," he rushed to the centre of the console. "Just fiddle with my biology a bit." He shuddered. "Not for long. Just until we're out of the woods."  
_ _"How?" Her question was answered when a horrible, intrusive looking headpiece lowered itself from the ceiling. "What is that? What are you doing?"  
_ _As it descended, he pulled a small object from a notch in the TARDIS' floor. "Take this," he pushed it into the palm of her hand firmly.  
_ _"What is it?" She observed the item, turning the smooth metal over to reveal the intricate etchings on the other side.  
_ _"It's me," he said, as though it was obvious, and dashed to begin flicking switches.  
_ _"What?" She followed him around.  
_ _"Out there is the last surviving member of the Alliance of Shades," he pulled a lever, and the console room flooded with sound. "A vigilante, if you want. They used to serve as silencers for alien activity in other planets."  
"Okay," Clara's brow knitted. "A bit Men In Black, that. So why are we running?"  
"Men In Black, exactly," he pushed a button. "Problem is, they know me. I had a run-in with them a long time ago. Discontinued one of their members, and now he knows my genetic imprint. He can track me to the end of the universe just from following the scent of my Gallifreyan sweat." He smiled wearily. "But I have a trick."  
_ _"What's that?" She pushed away the damning fear that grew in her chest.  
_ _"He's following me based on my biology, Clara," he drew the words out as though they were agonising. "So I have to change my biology. Hide out. Like witness protection, until he loses my scent."  
_ _"How are you going to manage that?" She asked incredulously.  
_ _He pointed at the device that now hung just shy of his head. "Chameleon arch. It'll rewrite every single cell of mine. I'll be human."  
_ _"And then what?" She spluttered.  
_ _"Clara, I need you to look after me," he turned his attention to her doe-eyes. "I won't know who I really am. I'll just be the character. It's full immersion. For safety. But I won't know what I'm running from. The TARDIS will integrate me. It can't do the same for you, but I'll have a subconscious psychic link that makes sure I let you in." His breath stuttered. "It's not for long. He won't hold my scent for longer than six months."  
_ _"Six months?" Clara huffed. "How will I change you back?" He looked pointedly at the fob watch in her hand.  
_ _"I won't notice it. I'll keep it safe, but I'll ignore it for the most part. I've been through this before. A very long time ago," His eyes flitted between the door and the Chameleon Arch.  
"And did it work?" Clara asked fervently. He seemed to search for the memory, and once he had found it, his expression told her that it hadn't. "And you think it'll work this time?"  
"There were outstanding factors last time," he grumbled. "There's a video in the console. I'll leave my sonic here. It's advice, just in case. Use setting 472, it should show up." His expression softened. "I wouldn't ask you to do this if it wasn't the only option."  
_ _"No, it's okay," she assured him, putting on a brave face as he fitted the machine onto his head.  
"Will it hurt?"  
_ _The Doctor offered a sheepish smile in response._

_Clara wouldn't be able to wipe the memory of the Doctor's screams for a very long time._

* * *

"Good morning, Malcolm," Clara said cheerily as he walked in, looking dishevelled. She had already prepared him a mug of coffee, dark and bitter, and pushed it in his direction, taking into account his less-than-pristine appearance. "Rough night?"  
"Keep havin' these fuckin' dreams," he groaned as he curled his hands around the still-piping mug. Clara internally cringed at the thought of holding such hot pottery against her palms. He swallowed the searing liquid without so much as a moment's hesitation and smiled as his insides cooked - as though the almost-boiling temperature added something godlike to the flavour.  
"Oh yeah?" She raised her eyebrows expectantly, inviting him to share more.  
"I was this..." He waved his hand. "Some poncey alien. Felt like I was living in one of Reeder's sweaty movie marathons."  
"That's strange," she offered in response. He glanced up and analysed her face for a while, leaving her shrinking under his microscope. It was as though he was searching for a tell or a hint or just a reason to give her a thorough bollocking. "Speaking of..." She shuffled the papers on her desk, fished out the _Daily Mail_ , and held it up for him to see. "Ollie was caught in a Bella Italia with Emma Messinger."  
The headline didn't leave much to the imagination - as emblazoned in an obnoxious, bold font were the words _Sleeping With The Enemy_ alongside a poorly lit image of Ollie offering a forkful of pasta to an unamused-looking Emma.  
"Fuck me," he took the paper from her hands and admired it further. "Jesus Christ, he looks like a fuckin' eunuch. I've never seen a woman look so dissatisfied. And Bella Italia? He went all out, didn't he? Bet that wine's just his own fermented piss. Would explain that sour, bitchy fucking look on her face." His words were not paired with the usual gall and intensity that Clara had come to expect with the Doctor's masked alter ego.  
"You don't sound angry," she pointed out. In the past month, through trial and error, she had found that Malcolm Tucker didn't take kindly to cowards - in fact, she was certain he preferred it when she exerted some manner of confidence in response to his verbally abusive outbursts. They were never directed at her, and she supposed she had that subconscious psychic link to thank for that, but he appeared to appreciate a hint of aplomb every now and then.  
"This is brilliant, sweetheart," he smiled. It wasn't the Doctor's smile, brimming with love and hope; no, it was a sharky, cocky grin. "If this is what's making front-page news, we're in the fuckin' clear. It's when the hacks are quiet that it's concerning."  
"I was always told that no news is good news,"  
"Whoever told you that deserves a date with a firing range. Silence from the fuckin' media, that's the worse silence. You know they're planning something. A big attack on the budget cuts, or the spending, or a fucking exposition of our dear leader's favourite fetishes,"  
"Right. I'll keep that in mind," she paused in a moment of thought. "Does that mean you're letting Ollie off?"  
"Of course not!" He waved the thought away, straightened, and made to leave. "Maybe if I fuck him hard enough, he'll take me to Bella Italia!" He called to her as he exited, leaving her with a smile and the quiet of her meagre office.

* * *

Clara wasn't sure whether she liked the man the Doctor had become.  
There was so much anger cooking beneath his skin, she was almost certain that if she reached out and touched him, her hands would come back stained with soot. Every so often he would catch himself, and she'd watch his thought process as he tried to figure out why _exactly_ he was so furious with what, in the context of the bigger picture, was nothing. He was polished with fool's gold, screaming at the top of his lungs that he was untouchable - that he was a Strombolian eruption, ruining and wrecking any structure that dared to stand in his way. Sometimes, it was like he was trying to convince himself, like he knew there was something beneath his skin that he was desperately scratching at the surface of, searching for an answer behind a thousand layers of molten ash. There were other times where he'd look at her and his expression would soften then immediately return to its tense preset with a widening of icy eyes.  
She wondered if this was who he was underneath it all - a stropping child clinging to the idea of being _something_ , desperately clinging to some facade of importance and irrevocable indispensability. 

Clara was rolling the thought over in her head when a man entered her vision. Without so much as an apology for interrupting her daydream, he unceremoniously dragged a chair to a spot in front of her desk and stared at her.  
"Hello, can I help you?" She asked, making sure to wear a polite smile despite the intrusion.  
"Oswald," he read the nameplate that sat perfectly lined on her desk. "How long have you worked here?"  
"Just over a month," she responded curtly. It had been thirty-seven days, to be exact.  
"You joined around the same time as Malc," he said. It wasn't a question. He had done his research. "See, I've seen Malcolm run rings over every single person with just a _little_ involvement with the party. Fuckin' massive rings, too. He made a civil servant cry this morning because of a typo in a report." Clara wasn't sure where this monologue was going. "Never you, though. With you, he deflates like a gay man's cock in the Red Light District."  
"So?" She pressed the nameless man.  
"How long have you been fucking him?" He asked the question as easily as one would ask where a friend was going on Saturday, as though it wasn't a fundamental intrusion, as though it wasn't profoundly _wrong_.  
"I'm sorry?" She spluttered. "We're not... That's not... And even if it was, how is it any of your business?" Her hackles rose as she pushed away the initial offence.  
"Were you two rutting on each other before you both started working here, or was it post-employment?" He pushed further.  
"I didn't get your name," she said, the friendly 'receptionist' tone returning to her voice.  
"Jamie," he responded, seemingly surprised at her sudden change of approach.  
"Jamie," she repeated, drawing his name out. "I am not in any form of relationship with Malcolm Tucker." Clara smiled, dripping with spiteful sweetness. "If your precious masculinity is threatened by a woman who isn't reprimanded by her boss because she does her job and does it _well_ , then I think that's a problem you should take up with our wonderful NHS."  
He stared at her for a few moments. Whether the fact she had had the gall to respond or the quality of that response that shook his normally biting attitude was uncertain, but after a standoffish few seconds, he grinned like the Cheshire Cat. "If all the people in this department had half the bollocks you had, Oswald, we'd be a lot further up in the polls," he said reverently. "I can see why he's kept you around."  
"I can't extend the same sentiment," she responded, but her tone was a lot cheerier.  
"What were you before all of this?" He asked, curiosity sparking behind his eyes.  
"A teacher," she leaned back in her chair.  
"A teacher?" He raised his eyebrows in clear shock. "What made you want to go into fuckin' politics? Teacher pay is shite, but personal assistant to the Director of Communications must be fucking abysmal."  
"I'm in deep cover. When the time's right, I'll stage a coup," she said, completely deadpan. Luckily, he clocked her sarcasm and laughed.  
"Me and you together, darlin'," 

The door swung open and Malcolm emerged from the hallway, exaggerating an expression of disgust when he laid eyes on Jamie. "Old Mc-fucking-Donald," he breathed in, looked between him and Clara, and cocked his eyebrow. "Fuck are you doing, haranguing my fuckin' assistant?"  
"He was just asking me some questions," she interjected.  
"Alright, Malc?" Jamie greeted him.  
"Don't fucking call me that. I'll set fire to your fuckin' dog if you call me that,"  
"Don't have a dog," the little victory put a cocky smirk on his face that Malcolm seemed desperate to smack into another dimension.  
"What's that ring on your finger for, then?" He challenged the man. "Slimy cunt. Get out my fucking sight. I've got big-boy work to do."  
"Piss off, you cock fracture," Jamie rose from his seat, and to Clara's surprise, gave Malcolm a friendly pat on the shoulder as he left.

"How are your dreams?" Clara asked, choosing not to skirt around the subject.  
"What?"  
"The other week, you said something about having weird dreams. Have you had any more?" She propped her elbows against her desk.  
A cloud settled in his steely eyes. "Yeah," for the first time, he sounded unsure of himself. "Sometimes I'm... I know I'm the same person, but I look different. The people I'm with kind of fluctuates. Sometimes..." He blinked away the thousand-yard-stare and shook his head. "Doesn't matter, anyway. It's all pseudo-Freudian bollocks. Probably some intensely repressed fuckin' trauma."  
"Maybe," in a way, he was correct.  
"Why d'you care?" He asked.  
"Don't know. I just remembered, thought I'd check in," was what she settled with. "Would you like a cup of coffee?"

* * *

Clara entered his office on the sixty-second day and he flinched. 

It was the first time she had ever seen him flinch - the first time she had ever witnessed a reaction from him that wasn't slathered in an icy, abrasive disregard for the people around him. She hadn't knocked, and retrospectively, knew she had done it to see if she could garner some reaction from him that told her that he was _human_ , with all the reactionary consequences of evolution alongside it. She hadn't expected it, though, and watched as he fumbled with the object he gripped tightly in his palm. Even without seeing, she knew it was the fob watch.  
"Sorry," she chose to say, sloppily painting over the intrusion. "DOSaC's on the phone."  
He brushed off her apology like dust on his shoulder and sleekly slipped his watch into his blazer pocket. "What's happened?"  
"Blinky's emails were leaked. Glenn's fault,"  
"Blinky?"  
"Ben Swain," she corrected herself quickly.  
"How deep is the shit we're in?" He asked, beginning to prep himself to leave. "Is he ankle-deep, or is there seepage dripping into Tartarus?"  
"He called the foreign minister a..." She searched for the word. "Lout."  
"Jesus H. Christ," he grunted. "How?"  
"It was in an email thread that he cc'd Angela Heaney in,"  
"Fetch me my fucking horse," he snarled. "And three more horsemen. I'm going to rain Armageddon on the fucking digitally-illiterate _louts_ in that infected piss slit of a department."  
"I'll get in contact with the closest stable," she grinned. "Oh - it's the defence secretary's birthday today. You sent her a bouquet of freesias and some Ferrero Rochers."  
"Didn't know my budget stretched to Ferrero Rochers," he furrowed his brow.  
"It doesn't," she said, feeling the immediate regret when he questioned her with those ever-calculating eyes. "Mine does."  
"What?"  
"You were running around, I didn't have time to ask what your budget was, so I just paid for it myself," she explained. For whatever reason, she felt embarrassment flush her face.  
"You have my details," he pointed out.  
"It seemed rude not to ask first," she shrugged it off.  
"How big?"  
"Sorry?"  
"How big was the box?"  
"I don't know. There were twenty-four, I think," she averted her gaze, choosing instead to focus on his bookshelf. "It was only twenty pounds. It's nothing, really, Malcolm,"  
He seemed flabbergastered, but shook off his shock to hone in on the mindset he needed for an appropriately bloodthirsty bollocking. "Right. Okay. I'll pay you back later. I do have to go,"  
"Don't worry about it," she shook her head. "It's just a couple of quid. Go."  
He stared at her for a few more seconds, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and exited.

"I'm coming for a visit," she heard him chime in a darkly joyous manner. "Tell Glenn he's got a ten-minute head start, and when I find him, I'm going to hang him from his ankles and bleed him like a fucking goat,"

* * *

"I looked you up," Jamie said as he flounced into her office on day ninety-four.  
"If you wanted to add me on Facebook, you could've just asked," she grinned, fixing a typo on a statement before she sent it off to the prime minister's assistant.  
"I wanted to know how a school teacher got a job in the government," he ignored her comment and sat in the chair that hadn't moved since his last confrontation with her. "You're classified."  
"Am I?" She sat back, feigning innocence. "I wouldn't know."  
"Under the 456 regulations," he continued. "So what were you? Torchwood?"  
"Why do you care?" She folded her arms defiantly. In reality, she barely knew what Torchwood was - only that they were very secretive and somehow, in some manner, were linked with the Doctor's ancient escapades.  
"I like to know who's running the government,"  
"He's in number ten. I can arrange you an appointment, if you'd like,"  
"Deflection doesn't look good on you, Oswald," he snipped.  
"Suspicion doesn't look good on _you_ , McDonald," she countered seamlessly. "It may shock you to learn that I'm very good at making friends."  
"Friends with injunctions on their information are not friends," he grumbled.  
"Oh, yes they are," she drawled. "They're the most trustworthy friends you can make."  
"So if you've got all these connections, Ozzy, what are you doing in a PA job?" He interrogated her incessantly, but the pressure was little more than a feather on Clara's chest.  
"I like to know what's going on,"  
"So do I," a light flashed in his almost-black irises. "Have you two fucked yet?"  
"I was _almost_ beginning to enjoy your company," she quipped. "Any reason you're here?"  
"Looking for the man himself. Thought if I came to annoy you a bit, he'd arrive in a flash,"  
"Does anyone have a number for fucking pest control?" Malcolm Tucker's voice boomed down the hallway, and Jamie smiled triumphantly. He emerged in the doorway, grimaced at the sight of Jamie, and continued. "I've got some hulked-out fucking 'roid rat loitering by my office."  
"Some bloke wants to see you," Jamie didn't grace his insult with a thought-out quip. "Some stony chap from - it must've been one of those cracked fuckin' pressure groups. Some 'alliance',"  
Clara baulked. "Tell him to make an appointment," she said a little too quickly. When they turned to give her a shared confused look, she composed herself. "You're up to your ears in meetings for the next week."  
"Yeah, do that," Malcolm said, the concern still cracking through his masked exterior. "I'll be in my office. If the revolution starts, call me and I'll volunteer myself for the first chop."

"There's really nothing going on between you two, is there?" Jamie commented once he was out of earshot.  
"That's what I've been trying to tell you for a while," Clara responded, trying her best not to let her anxiety filter through her normally steady voice.  
"I'd ask if you were already with someone, but you're here longer hours than he is," he shook his head. "Don't think I've ever seen you out of that fuckin' chair. Must have bed rash by now."  
She wasn't sure if it was the taming of her anxiety that had her usually stoic outward expression flickering, but her normally persistent smile faltered. "Best to keep busy,"  
He caught the first crack, but instead of pushing, he stood. "Don't let this job turn you into a husk,"  
"I won't," she promised. "I'll see you later, Jamie."  
"Bloody hope not," he teased as he left.

* * *

_Some 'alliance'._

For past months, she had overtly avoided visiting the TARDIS - but Jamie's words echoed in her head, and the fear washing over her was constricting her throat. She needed an answer - some form of reassurance - and she recalled what the Doctor said three months ago about a video on the TARDIS' console. 

With a shaking hand, she knocked on Malcolm's door. A grunt sounded from inside, indicating her to come in, and she edged the door open. "Hi, Malcolm,"  
"Clara," he acknowledged her without looking up.  
"Would it be alright if I left early today?" She asked, nerves piquing. "It's a one-off. It won't happen again, I just -"  
"That's fine," he interjected, saving her the breath. Slowly, he brought his eyes to hers and frowned. "Are you alright?"  
She nodded, planting a forced smile on her face. She could tell that he could see right through her - it appeared that despite he had changed, his ability to suscept her every waking thought was lying dormant beneath the jagged layers of rock formed as a makeshift skin. "I'll come in early tomorrow," she promised. He waved her off.  
"See you then,"

Clara didn't waste any time leaving. She gave curt nods to the colleagues she had vaguely acquainted herself with as they acknowledged her, but kept her head down for the most part.  
Without a blunder, she managed to get herself out onto the street. The air was cool with the promise of Autumn, the sky overcast and pillowing the sun. Clara began to walk to an empty, disused parking complex. It wasn't far away, and as she made her brisk way she zipped her coat up to protect against the biting gusts of wind.

After a twenty-minute walk shrouded in deep thought, she was approaching the complex. The TARDIS had parked itself here as a means to hide-out. Realistically, the only people who would be seeing it would be the children staying out past curfew to paint the city gold and blue through a messy signature with a spray can. The stairwell up to the first floor was damp and colder than outside, but quickly she was approaching the ship, holding a key in her outstretched hand.  
"Hello," she said softly to the centre console. In response, she felt a weak hum under her feet.

It was dark inside, and felt overall rather eerie. It had gone into a state of hiding, using as little energy as possible to avoid traceability. Laid on the console was, as once promised, the Doctor's screwdriver, which she picked up and rolled in her hand. She had spent the past three months so immersed in their cover that sometimes, she doubted whether all of this was even _real_.  
"472," she whispered and applied the setting. Once the trill of the screwdriver sounded, she pointed it in the direction of the monitor.

Almost immediately, it flickered on, showing a man she recalled from the day they saved Gallifrey. He looked younger in the video. Much younger. As she focused in on the pixellated Doctor, she absently slipped the sonic screwdriver into her blazer's inside pocket.  
She liked this version of him. He was without the ice of the Doctor she knew now, and without the whimsical wonder of the Doctor she knew before. Silently, she questioned what exactly must have happened for him to change so drastically.  
_"One: Don't let me hurt anyone,"_  
Did an intense flurry of verbal abuse count as hurting someone? Probably not. He was likely talking about real hurt - a knife wound or a gunshot. Something like that, she hoped.  
_"Two: Don't worry about the TARDIS."_  
Emergency power. She knew about that. She skipped forward a little bit.  
_"And five, very important, five, don't let me eat pears. I hate pears. John Smith is a character I made up but I won't know that. I'll think I am him and he might do something stupid like eat a pear. In three months I don't wanna wake up from being human and taste that."  
_She laughed. A real laugh, a stomach holding laugh that after a while, malformed into awkward, heaved sobs. She didn't like this. For the first time in a long time, Clara felt alone. Completely defenceless against the rest of the world. She could get UNIT on the phone, but what good would that do? She had to keep a low profile; it was what he had risked his entire being to do.  
At some point, she gathered her composure and turned her attention back to the screen.  
_"And twenty-three. If anything goes wrong, if they find us, Martha, then you know what to do. Open the watch. Everything I am is kept safe in there. Now, I've put a perception filter on it so the human me won't think anything of it. To him, it's just a watch. But don't open it unless you have to, 'cause once it's open, the Family will be able to find me. It's all down to you, Martha, your choice."_  
She frowned, unable to find the words to ask. If she could see the Doctor now, she would smack him for being so bloody _vague_ about the whole thing. There were no instructions, just guidelines. When was it deemed 'necessary' to open the watch? Was it when _he_ was in danger, or was it applicable if she was in danger too? Would it be worth opening it now, in the promise of future danger? Clara groaned.  
_"Oh, and... Thank you."_

Despite the lack of real help, a feeling of catharsis settled over Clara. This wouldn't last forever. She was already halfway through the mess. It wouldn't be long now until she could open the watch, bring the Doctor back, and jet off to some seaside resort on a faraway planet as payment for her painstaking work.  
After a while, she left the TARDIS and made her way back to her rented room.

* * *

Malcolm entered her office on day one-hundred-and-thirty two with a grimace etched into his face. If they got through the entire six months, Clara was certain he'd come out the other side with frown lines deeper than canyons. She pushed his coffee mug toward him.  
"Ta," he let up on his steely expression for favour of a forced smile.  
"Dreams?" She asked.  
"How'd you know?" He asked between sips.  
"Your bags have bags,"  
"It's this fuckin' job. 'S turned me into a fucking husk," he scanned her for a second longer than was comfortable. "You keep rearing your fuckin' head in them."  
"Yeah?" Clara smiled.  
"Least I know my temporal lobe hasn't gone fucking rancid. I've characterised you well,"  
"How've you characterised me?"  
"Stubborn," he wore that sharky grin. "Incredibly dense. Denser than a black hole. Couldn't see the obvious if it was screaming in your face."  
The words hurt, and despite all reasonable thought to ignore it, she let a stuttered frown shatter her resting smile. "Weird," she spoke without her usual sureness. "Just dreams, though."  
"I've got a meeting today," he noticed her falter and chose quickly to change the subject.  
"Oh?" She blinked. "I don't have anything in my diary for you."  
"No, he contacted me directly. One of those Alliance bastards. Told him to take it up with you, but he wouldn't take no for an answer, incessant fuck."  
"Right," there was that anxiety again. "I'll come with you. I'm not doing much."  
"Don't trust me?" He raised his eyebrows. Her brain blanked for a response. "That's fine. Not a worry. Would be good to have someone to take minutes. Or to call emergency services if he's as psychotic as he is persistent."  
"Okay," she smiled briefly. "Glenn Cullen told me to tell you he's in Wales."  
"Couldn't come to me himself?"  
"I think he was scared,"  
"Good," he smiled triumphantly. "That's fine. Not much use to DOSaC anymore, is he? Might have to take him to the barn and put him out of his fuckin' misery."  
"When's this meeting?"  
"Half an hour. Call for a car while I get this down me," he didn't bark the orders. "He gave me an address. If he's planning on an assassination, I'll be thanking my lucky fucking stars."  
"What was the address?"  
"Some old car park. I'll have security down the road," he reassured her. "It's just down the road. I'll tell drive where he's going." With that, he shuffled into his office, closed the door behind him, and Clara let out a laboured exhale.  
This wasn't good. This wasn't good at all.

The car came far too quickly, and Clara cursed today for being the only day in which London wasn't heaving with horrific traffic. Malcolm left first, giving her time to 'go to the restroom'. In reality, she snuck into his office, rifled through his drawers, and found the fob watch, untouched under a collection of miscellaneous leaves of paper. She took a few deep breaths, slipped the watch into her pocket, and exited.

* * *

The journey was short, and her sense of dread doubled with each turn they took toward the car park the TARDIS was hiding out in. The fob watch hung cold and heavy in her pocket.  
"We're here," Malcolm shattered the deep bubble of thought, staring at her expectantly. She jolted, scattered out of the car, and stood at his side, staring down the car park she had visited only a month prior.  
"Bit fuckin' spooky this, isn't it? Shitting my drawers," he joked lightly. "There's a security fleet at the bottom of the street. He's probably just an offshoot of some extremist pressure group."  
"Why did you agree to meet him?" She asked hesitantly.  
"I don't know," he admitted. "Just thought I'd grant him the courtesy. Not many people can get Malcolm F Tucker's personal phone number."  
"'F'?"  
He winked and launched into action, leaving her following after him with dread plateauing at an exponential level.

"Hello," Malcolm called out to a figure in the corner of the car park. "Now, if I knew we were meeting here all those fuckin' weeks ago, I would've got my dogging suit dry cleaned."  
"Doctor," the man said. His voice was monotonous, robotic, and Clara's breath hitched.  
"Doctor?" Malcolm repeated with a frown.  
"You are the Doctor,"  
"I got a fuckin' D in O-Level Biology, pal. I'm no fuckin' doctor,"  
"Malcolm, we should leave," Clara said desperately, reaching carefully into her pocket to wrap her hand around the cold steel fob watch, tracing her thumb around each intricate etching.  
"You are the Doctor," the man repeated. He took a step forward. "You are a threat."  
"You take your fucking boney arse back to that corner, you dull shit, or I'll show you what a fucking threat is!" He snarled. "I've got armed security littered all over this fucking street. If you try _anything_ , I'll knit your rancid fucking intestines into a scarf."  
The man's head tilted up and down, examining Malcolm. "You are a threat," he said once again, but then turned to look at Clara. "You are a threat."  
"What?!" Malcolm roared, stepping forward to guard Clara's body with his own. "I don't know what kind of fuckin' _psycho_ you are, but you best be very careful about how you talk to my _friend_. Less you want me to wear your ears as a fuckin' pendant."  
Despite the adrenaline shooting through her body, the word 'friend' froze her. In slow motion, she watched as the man's hand appeared to detach, revealing a strange blaster. In a nanosecond, she was launching herself onto Malcolm, throwing him out the way of the green beam barreling toward them at immense speed. The result was a high-pitched trill as the laser singed a stone pillar.  
When she tackled him, a clatter sounded to her right, and she realised that the fob watch had fallen out of her pocket. There was a pressure on her ribcage that she couldn't place the source of, but she had no time for that now. "Malcolm," she uttered breathlessly. She could feel his heartbeat through his thin shirt, and it was uncomfortably fast. "Open the watch."  
"You are a threat," the man said it again, stuck on a record. His blaster appeared to be recharging - for he didn't move, nor attempt to advance toward them.  
"What?" Malcolm wheezed. "What do you mean, open the fucking watch? We're about to die, and you want me to tell you the time?"

The man must have heard them, because his sight fixated on the fob watch on the ground beside them. His arm rose, and Clara couldn't process what was happening until it was too late. That bright green light screeched through the air, engulfed the object, and left nothing but dust.  
"No!" She screamed, launching herself at the dust. "No, no! No!"  
Behind her, Malcolm rose, moving slowly toward her. He put a hand on her shoulder. "Your inside pocket," he said simply. His voice didn't have the same edge as she had grown used to, and, confused, she reached into her pocket and felt her fingers close around his sonic screwdriver. She retrieved it, stared, and flinched when it was snatched out of her hand by Tucker.  
"Now, the last surviving member of the Alliance of Dread," he chimed, approaching the android to ruffle his hair. He was exuding a brand new confidence. "I had your pal with a little zap of my sonic, but I doubt you kept that flaw. Regardless. A virus only has to mutate a little bit -"  
"You are a threat," the man turned at superhuman speed to face him. "The threat must be neutralised." His head tilted stiffly, moving between the dust left behind by the laser's beam and Malcolm. "The threat was not neutralised."  
"Oh, yes it was." In a flourishing movement, the sonic screwdriver was pressed to the Alliance of Shades' last member's temple, triggered, and the man seemed to turn off, crumpling to his knees and falling face-first into the concrete.

Clara's breath hitched. "What did you do?" She asked, panicked.  
"Deleted system thirty-two,"  
"The watch was destroyed. Are you -"  
"You thought my buried subconscious would let me go into battle with an alien on my own?"  
"So you're... You?" She recalled the feeling of his heartbeat, and realised that no, it wasn't fast, it was doubled. "Doctor?"  
"Hello, Clara Oswald," he smiled, and it was _him_. Without a moment's hesitation, she launched herself toward him, engulfing him in a hug. "Oh, Jesus Christ."  
"I know," she laughed. "You don't like it. I've just missed you."  
"And I you," he pulled away. "Now, help me bring our friend into the TARDIS."

* * *

"How did you do it, then?" Clara asked. The TARDIS was flooded with life, humming and pulsing and vibrating underneath their feet. The Doctor was fiddling with the Man In Black's detached head - a sight that shouldn't have felt so comforting, but did.  
"Hm?"  
"When did you open the watch?"  
"After the phone call. It was in my pocket, and it just started _boiling_."  
"Why did you hide it from me?" She asked.  
"You had to believe I was still Malcolm Tucker for it to work. Our friend had to believe that the source of the time lord energy he was seeking was in the watch,"  
"How did he find us in the first place?"  
"Must have updated his systems," he said vaguely, still tinkering with the wires protruding from his neck.  
"You knew this was going to happen,"  
He looked up, stared at her for a while, then nodded. "It was the plan, yes. I didn't expect it to go quite as brilliantly as it did. You accidentally thieving the sonic was a brilliant touch,"  
"I completely forgot about it," she blinked. "I don't know how it even got in there."  
"I knew that at one point, you'd look for the video. And that your absent human brain would shove the sonic where you'd think it was safe, just in case you needed it. The TARDIS probably guided you on that one."  
"That was weeks ago, though," Clara pointed out.  
"And you have four outfits that you cycle on repeat," he said stone-faced, but at her obvious offence, he smiled.  
"What are you doing to his head?" She asked.  
"Reprogramming him. Making sure he stays dormant. We can drop him off at UNIT, let them shove him in their archives, and then shoot off," after a pause, he looked up. "Thank you, by the way."  
"For what?"  
"For not giving up on me," he said.  
"I don't know. I ended up quite liking Malcolm Tucker. You could probably take some pointers from him; he had some very creative threats," she grinned.  
"Fuck off," he responded with a shake of the head.  
  



End file.
